It was an encounter that will mark me for the rest of my life.

I first met John Prescott when he was a small, wide-eyed journalist in my home town of Hull, where I worked for the local paper in the heart of his constituency.

I had been sent to cover the opening of a new school, and John was there, cutting the ribbon and probably scaring the life out of poor Scissors. Not only was I there with him, but there were journalists from the national newspapers who, to me at the time, were like Bryan Robson to an aspiring footballer.

After my idols asked him a mountain of questions covering every aspect of this new Victoria Dock School, there was nothing else to say.

But as a feeling of fear and panic overcame me at the thought of returning to the office empty-handed, being young and inexperienced, I asked him how he would react to the recent criticism he had received about thefts. by helicopter funded by taxpayers for relatively short trips. across the UK.

He was furious. Incandescent with rage. As I snuck back to my car – a three-series silver BMW that was my pride and joy – I was spun around with more force than a ride on Strictly. It was Jean. “What’s the big fucking idea,” he asked. “Who do you think you are,” he lashed out.

For the next ten minutes, even as his assistants tugged at his sleeve like overworked mothers trying to get their children out of a candy store, he tore me apart. However, after about 20 minutes – which felt like 20 hours – we ended with a handshake and I left feeling like I had met the very spirit of Hull.

Six months later I found myself covering the former Hull trawlers’ campaign to get justice for the collapse of the fishing industry. We took a train to Number 10 with a hundred graying fishermen, and I wrote the next day’s front page on the return journey.

It read: “In 1977, backbencher John Prescott told fishermen: ‘Don’t let us, as politicians, disappoint you’ — but that’s exactly what they did. » The article was a hit with the guys, but one man was furious. As I sat at my desk with the newspaper on sale, my phone rang.

“Hello, newsroom,” I said. “Is that Chris?” » replied the voice on the other end of the line. “That’s right,” I replied, then was told it was “John f****** Prescott.”

For the next 15 minutes, I was systematically dissected with world-class expletives, some of which I had never heard before. It was less of a phone call and more of a fire hose of rage. My colleagues gathered around, some holding back laughter, others wide-eyed.

At one point I put it on speaker, just to share the experience of being the target of John’s infamous hairdryer treatment. As he neared the end of the call, the Deputy Prime Minister asked me: “Do you know what really turns me on about you, Chris?” “No, Mr. Prescott,” I said, genuinely curious.

“The first time I met you, the first fucking time, you asked me to fly a helicopter as ‘my chosen means of transportation’. So I go out and what do I see? You are standing next to a brand new silver BMW.

“My car, not my damn ministerial Jag, my personal Jag cost me £14,000 second-hand. So go ahead, Chris, tell me, how much did your car cost? “I got it for £5,575, third hand, Mr Prescott,” I said. “Well, you got a damn good deal, then,” he shouted before hanging up the phone.

This was just one of my many altercations with John over the years. Once, when I was at the Guildhall in Hull, about to greet his wonderful wife Pauline, who addressed me with a friendly “Hello, Chris, how are you?” » I couldn’t say a word before John bulldozed me to the ground. And then there was the time I was sent to give him a pair of boxing gloves and a pair of “Prezza” embroidered shorts after he punched his rowdy egg thrower. He never accepted them, but it’s safe to say I almost became his second knockout.

But despite every stripping and bruised shoulder, I always knew John was a man of integrity who would never stop fighting for the people. This tenacity, this courage, was because he sincerely believed in the defense of workers. He was as tireless as he was intrepid. And sometimes we saw the softer side too.

One frosty morning in 1998, I was shivering on the platform at Paragon station in Hull, waiting for the 5:50 a.m. train to London, when a figure emerged from the mist. It was Jean. My spine stiffened, preparing me for a reprimand. Instead, he held out his hand.

“I just wanted to say well done, Chris. I’m really proud of you,” he said, congratulating me on an award I had recently won for my work on the paper. I was stunned – not just because he knew it, but because he cared enough to say it. It’s not every day you get a pat on the back from the Deputy Prime Minister at dawn.

Finding my seat on the train, I thought about going to first class to ask if it was him or the taxpayer who paid for his ticket. But just for once, I let it slide. I learned the hard way that you have to pick your battles with John. He was every bit the brutal working-class hero I’d read about – no-nonsense, with a look that could melt steel, and yet there was something undeniably decent about him.

He was a man who understood what it meant to be on the margins of life. You could say he was the first ‘man of the people’, long before every politician decided to don a hi-vis jacket and pretend to care about your boiler problems.

But as for my clothes, I only think of them with fondness. Sir Alex Ferguson’s hairdryer treatment was nothing compared to my MP’s. John could make Fergie look like Mary Poppins with a cold.